Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 9)

by A W Hartoin

“Lucky for you, mine are limited,” said Spidermonkey. “What do you want to know?”

  “If he’s got mystery money we can’t account for. If you can tie it to Emma that would be swell.”

  “I have no doubt there’s a connection. We just have to find it. On the surface, there’s no reason that I can see that these kids would know Weeks. Totally different worlds.”

  “I know, but they’re in it together. I’m positive.”

  I hung up and told them what Spidermonkey and Novak had found out. They were silent and Ward steepled his fingers again, mulling it over. Then a knock echoed around the room and a man in his late thirties came in. Now he was an Eric Schneider. Short, blond, and bristling with energy despite the slight concern about being summoned out of the blue. He practically dashed to Ward’s desk and went up on the balls of his feet, ready to go. “Nicole said you needed me immediately. What can I do, Mr. Laidlaw?”

  “You can answer some questions,” said Ward. “This is Mercy Watts and I believe you know Calpurnia Fibonacci.”

  Eric paled just the smallest bit before shaking our hands.

  “What are the questions, Mr. Laidlaw?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Miss Watts has all the questions and the answers, I suspect.”

  Eric turned to me. “What can I do for you?”

  I decided to explain nothing and go straight at him. “Who was blocking Catherine Cabot from getting your account at Elite?”

  “Oh, um,” said Eric before glancing at Ward, who nodded. “No one was really blocking her. We were exploring other avenues.”

  “Very politic, Mr. Schneider,” said Calpurnia. “What really happened?”

  “Can I ask what this is about?”

  “No.”

  The room went quiet and Eric Schneider, Head of Accounts, gathered his thoughts as Ward said he would. By pacing.

  “Go ahead and tell them, Eric,” said Ward. “Although I think we already know.”

  Eric stopped at the desk and looked askance at the coffee and Ward nodded. He got a cup and said, “I don’t know why, but Porter, Porter Weeks, our late CFO, questioned Miss Cabot’s being up to the job.”

  “Anyone else?” I asked.

  “No. She was obviously the right choice. Her résumé was second to none.”

  Ward leaned back in his chair and held his delicate cup between the palms of his hands. “And you didn’t think to mention that at the board meeting or to me personally?”

  Eric began pacing again, nearly breaking into a run. “I thought he was being thorough. Porter was always thorough.”

  “But?” I asked.

  Eric stopped and faced me. “He killed himself last Tuesday. Did you know that?”

  “I did.”

  “When I found out…I don’t know. I started to wonder. But Porter wouldn’t have done anything illegal. He wasn’t that kind of guy.”

  Calpurnia placed her cup and saucer on the desk and looked up at him. I could almost see the chill going down the man’s spine. “But it wasn’t only his death that made you wonder.”

  He swallowed. “No. After the meeting on Monday,” he looked at me, “we discussed the Elite account.”

  “I know,” I said. “Go on. What happened after? What did he do?”

  “He left. I called his office about another matter and June said he never came back from the meeting. I told her to call me when he did come back, but an hour later, he still wasn’t there. He’d missed a conference call with Japan and hadn’t checked in at all. It wasn’t like him.”

  “What did June think?” asked Ward.

  “Just that he hadn’t looked well before the board meeting and she thought he must’ve gone home or to the doctor,” said Eric.

  “What did you do after that?” I asked. “Did you call Elite?”

  “Yes. I talked to Kevin Calabasas and told him it was a go with Miss Cabot.” Eric looked out the window at the St. Louis skyline and said softly, “I never saw Porter again.”

  “It pains me to say it, Mercy,” said Ward, “but it looks as though you were right.”

  “Right about what?” asked Eric, but he knew already.

  I just looked at him. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He was clearly grieving for a friend and colleague. I was about to add to that in a big way.

  “Mercy,” said Ward, “I’m wondering what this might have to do with what happened to you this morning?”

  “I am, too.”

  “That student, Emma, might have done it or engineered it,” said Calpurnia offhandedly.

  “But you don’t think so and neither do I. What would be the point?” I asked. “The account left Elite after Catherine was shot. That’s what they wanted. Why shoot me?”

  “Who’s Emma? And did you say that someone shot at you?” asked Eric.

  Ward held up his hand. “I’ll explain later. That doesn’t sound right to me, unless they thought you knew who they were.”

  Calpurnia took out her phone and told someone, “Keep the hacker at the house. He may be a target.” Then she looked at me. “Anyone else? Your uncle?”

  “I think my parents found him, but you can’t really protect him. My dad would figure that out, even if he is off his game.”

  “Agreed.” She hung up. “I suppose you’ll have to finish this quickly.”

  “Do you need anything else from us?” asked Ward.

  “Let me think.” I wasn’t thinking about what I needed from them. I was thinking about how I could possibly avoid interviewing a grieving widow and her kids.

  “Call your man,” said Calpurnia, careful not to use his name.

  I did because it was a delay in the inevitable. “Hey, it’s me. Weeks delayed the assignment to Catherine,” I said.

  “Good. Good. You’ll like this,” said Spidermonkey.

  “Will I really?”

  “Well, no, probably not. Two of the Frightful Five are in school at SLU. They’re electrical engineering students. One is at Rolla with Emma, a senior in computer science and number five is at MIT.”

  “I guess that’s good,” I said.

  “The two at SLU hunt and have gun permits.”

  “So it’s a good news bad news kind of thing.”

  “It’s more bad news. I’m concerned about your safety.”

  I glanced over at Calpurnia. “I’m good. What else? Did you get in the accountant’s files?”

  “Novak’s in there right now working on it. Here’s the thing. The one from MIT, he flew into Lambert on Wednesday. The Frightful Five are all here in St. Louis.”

  “What are they doing? Have you traced their movements?” I asked, suddenly aware of how quiet the room had gotten.

  “They’re at a Motel 6 off 270, ordering pizzas and watching HBO,” said Spidermonkey.

  “That’s it? Why are they there?”

  “They went dark the moment they checked in, but, Mercy, they know Weeks is dead. They were talking about it almost immediately after it happened. First text was three hours after.”

  “That’s not so immediately,” I said.

  “It is when the family only found out two hours after,” he said. “It wasn’t online or in the news. How did they find out?”

  “Did he call or email them?” I asked.

  “Not that I can find. Novak and I can’t find any link between these kids and Weeks,” said Spidermonkey. I’d never heard him so rattled, not even after Mom’s stroke. He was so calm on the phone with me.

  “It’s alright,” I said. “Wait. You don’t think they shot Weeks, do you?”

  “No. It’s conclusive. A suicide.” He took a breath. “There were people on the course and they were there immediately. No one was with him. But…”

  “But?” I asked.

  “They did discuss killing Catherine before Weeks died. It’s not a leap to think they decided to kill you.”

  But it was a leap. It was for me anyway. They didn’t threaten Catherine with violence.

  “I don’t think s
o. It’s not right,” I said.

  “They could’ve taken those shots at you this morning. They’re hunters. It fits.”

  I stood up and started pacing with Eric, my skirt brushing against his legs when I turned. “But did they make a plan to kill Catherine?”

  “No. They discussed it as an option,” he said. “It was ruled out, but they could’ve done it anyway on a whim.”

  “This is a calculated operation and not run on whims.” I turned, my skirt belling out beautifully. “They wanted her fired, shamed, off the account, but that’s all.”

  “That’s all, except she’s in the hospital with extra holes,” said Spidermonkey. “You have to take this seriously. They could’ve done your truck this morning. Hunting rifle. It fits.”

  “It fits, but it isn’t right,” I said. “We have to find a connection between the Frightful Five and Weeks.”

  “I’ll find one,” said Spidermonkey. “Wait a second. Novak just came back. You got your connection.”

  I did and I didn’t. What Novak found was money. Weeks was using funds from an account to pad his income, like Emma Ryder he was a consultant for an off-shore trust. Unlike Emma, he was using his money to pay bills. Novak was working the money back, but he was sure it would come together with Emma’s. He’d taken a good look at the coding and it was a match for the MIT student’s style, but he still had no clue how exactly they were stealing from the accounts.

  “I believe Weeks is in it with the Frightful Five. I just don’t believe they tried to kill Catherine. Hell, Weeks shot himself. He had the most to lose, a family and a reputation.”

  “I agree, Mercy, but they know Weeks, they have motive and the ability,” he said.

  “Can you send me their bios?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing there. They’re not country club kids. As far as I can tell, Weeks has never been to Rolla. SLU maybe. Mercy, I believe they tried to kill you.”

  “Just send me those bios,” I said.

  “I did, but don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Puhlease. When do I ever do anything stupid?”

  “Practically every time I work with you.”

  “No faith,” I said.

  “I have every faith,” said Spidermonkey. “That’s why I’m worried.”

  I hung up and quickly told Ward what I knew. Then he slowly got out of his chair and pushed the button on his desk. “Nicole, clear my schedule.”

  “Yes, Mr. Laidlaw,” said Nicole. “What should I give as a reason?”

  “I’ve suddenly become unavailable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ward held out a blue-veined hand to me. “It’s time we take your questions to the horse’s mouth, don’t you think?”

  I walked over and took his hand. “What horse are we talking about?”

  “Rita Weeks. Porter’s wake is happening right now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I TRIED TO get out of it. I really did. Going to a wake and badgering the widow wasn’t my idea of nice, but nobody asked me. Calpurnia stood up, nodded, and left. I protested, but she simply said, “I’ll keep your man until you’ve solved it.”

  That didn’t sound good, like Spidermonkey was a hostage or something. I lost my driver and bodyguard, too. Charles was gone when we walked out and another man had taken his place. Ward called him Colin and he followed us into the elevator, stood in front of us like a shield, and then pressed the button for the first floor.

  “I don’t know about this,” I said.

  Ward patted my hand that he kept snug on his arm. “I know your history. You’re hardly faint of heart.”

  “No, but this is…disrespectful.”

  “You’re willing to give up your advantage to Detective Jones?” he asked.

  “Maybe my guys will find the connection another way.”

  “Mercy, I believe in being direct. I didn’t get to where I am by pussyfooting around.”

  The elevator doors opened and we walked out into a sumptuous lobby, gleaming brass and hardwood.

  “But it’s a wake for a suicide. I’m pretty sure that’s the worst kind of wake.” I stopped at the front door. “We’re going out in the open?”

  “Yes. No one knows you’re here and you are with me.”

  I glanced over at the frail old man next to me. You are with me. Those words meant something and it occurred to me that Calpurnia didn’t tell Ward what to do. He basically told her.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “You know who I am.”

  “I don’t think I do.”

  He nodded at Colin, who opened the door, and I found myself outside in the chilly air with my skirt swinging in the breeze. We walked down the smooth stone steps and ducked into a waiting limo. Ward offered me a drink and I refused. There was a good chance I’d barf on the carpet.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to say to her,” I said.

  “My dear, it’s better than anything I would say,” said Ward, pouring himself a double scotch, neat.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve convinced me that one of my most trusted lieutenants has been robbing my customers for years. When this gets out, and it will get out, our reputation, my reputation will go into the toilet. His wife has been spending that money. Rita isn’t the brightest bulb, but she has to know something.”

  “She might not,” I said. “She might trust him to do the money. People do that.”

  “Yes, Mercy, they do. My wife, Ruth, trusts me, but she’s not a fool. The life they’ve been living is a lie.” His hand gripping the glass had gone white, making the smattering of age spots stand out in sharp relief.

  “It’s personal,” I said.

  “Very personal. And in a few minutes, you’ll see why.” Ward said nothing else and we rode out to Ladue, the swankiest suburb of St. Louis and beautiful in fall. It was just a short way off the highway, but another world of quiet roads, lightly forested with elegant, super expensive homes peeking out to show their grandeur.

  I ignored the beauty and flipped through the bios Spidermonkey sent me. He was right. Emma Ryder, Joshua Hall, Matt Guzman, Ashley England, and Tyler Rippon had nothing in common with Porter Weeks III. They were practically different species. But their faces kept me coming back to look again. They weren’t the faces of criminal masterminds, just poor students. Tyler had a drunk driving arrest and Matt had a ton of parking tickets, but that was the extent of their brushes with the law. They did need money. Their student debt was astronomical and Ashley’s mother had MS, requiring around the clock care. I guess that was enough to get them to commit a crime that they saw as victimless. But how did it start?

  Ward’s driver, Colin, slowed down and turned onto a driveway paved with individual stones and parked up on either side. I looked out the window and caught sight of a mansion. I’d stayed in a lot of hotels that were smaller. It had to be 12,000 square feet at least and reminiscent of Loire Valley chateaus with steeply pitched roofs, multiple chimneys, balconies, and a few turrets for good measure.

  “What do you think?” asked Ward.

  “Um…whose house is this?” I asked. “Not yours, right?”

  “I’m glad you were able to suss that out. No. My home could fit inside that one three or four times.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you see my problem.”

  I did and it was a big one. Edward Laidlaw, CEO and a man that told Calpurnia what to do, saw that house and didn’t question it.

  “Red flag,” I said.

  “And I didn’t see it.” Ward flashed me a look that both chilled and saddened me. He needed me to figure out where it went sideways with Weeks so he could rebuild and there wasn’t a whole lot of time to do it.

  “What do you think it cost?”

  “Around six million,” said Ward. “Not counting the cost of furnishing it. That was considerable I’m sure.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “Yes. Porter hid in plain sight.”

  “When did
they buy it?” I asked.

  “Almost two years ago. I was surprised, but we were going through a merger at the time and I didn’t put much thought into it.”

  I could hear his dentures grinding, but what I thought just popped out of my mouth. “But he killed himself.”

  Ward frowned and the hairs above his sparse brows waved at me. “Yes?”

  “Well, that shows guilt and regret, a deep sadness.”

  “It shows that he could do the crime, but not the time.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m glad we came.”

  “You don’t feel sorry for Rita anymore?” he asked.

  “We’ll see.”

  Colin got through the traffic jam and pulled around the enormous circular drive with a three-tiered fountain in the middle. The Sun King would’ve approved. We stopped at the foot of the wide stairs and a valet opened the door. I got out and he asked if I was on the list. Who in the world has a list for a wake?

  “She’s with me,” said Ward, coming around the limo.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Laidlaw,” said the valet. “We didn’t expect you back.”

  “I found that my grief wasn’t adequately expressed.”

  “Of course. Mrs. Weeks is by the pool and she is receiving.” The valet eyed me with curiosity. He wanted to ask why I was there, but couldn’t do it with Ward eyeing him.

  I took Ward’s arm and we walked very slowly up the stairs to go inside. There was a crush of people at various levels of mourning. Red-eyed to forced frowning. All the black clothing was disorienting. Only a couple of teen boys in military uniform stood out. One must be Peyton Weeks, but neither face resembled the dead CFO.

  Two valets weaved through the crowd, offering white or red wine. We both declined and tried to go through, but people were at us, offering their condolences. It seemed everyone knew Edward Laidlaw, except me.

  I whispered in Ward’s ear, “I’ll just go make a call.” I slipped away before he could object and wandered through the house, promptly getting lost, but that time it wasn’t my fault. I’d have needed bread crumbs to find my way. No family pictures. No books that people would actually read. It was like the whole place was plucked out of a magazine, making it both stylish and bland. The living rooms were enough to get me hopelessly lost. They had a bunch that all looked basically the same. There are other colors you can paint your walls besides beige, but you’d never know it from that place. And I saw two formal dining rooms. Nobody needed that.